Disability didn't stop this local author

By CHIP WORRELLColumnist

Published: Friday, September 20, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Thursday, September 19, 2013 at 5:24 p.m.

Mary Jane Strickland is a lady with cerebral palsy. She hasn't been out of a wheelchair since she was a little girl. She has lived the past 20-some years at the Brian Center nursing home in Laurel Park. She can't hold a pencil, wash a glass, make a bed or fry an egg, but she can type.

When she was a teenager, her adoptive dad took the harness out of a construction hard hat, welded a metal rod to the front band and attached a pencil eraser to the end. He then bought her an electric typewriter. That was the start of her writing career, which consisted of daily letters to all her extended family members and friends, culminating with her book of reminisces of what it was like growing up on a Carolina tobacco farm in the '40s and early '50s.

My favorite story is the wagon and the goat that pulled her around in it, and the young uncle who decided the goat should give him a ride, also. The goat didn't like the uncle much to start with, so after some fits and starts, the goat launched itself and the wagon with the uncle crammed inside it at a just-below-speed-of-sound velocity underneath the porch of the house. Houses in that area back then were usually set above the ground on brick pillars, maybe a couple inches above goat horn height but about 6 inches too low for young uncles. Said young uncle woke up in time for breakfast the next morning.

The book is for sale at the Blue Ridge Humane Society's thrift shop, and all proceeds go to the care of the critters. Even if you don't like dogs and cats, you'll like the book, so go and buy a copy. I recommend it.

***

Now, about the hordes of bicyclists on the roads this year. An all-too-frequent experience in our end of the county is whizzing around a corner while in a hurry to catch up on the day, and there, puffing up the next hill at a blazing 1½ miles an hour is a crowd of bicyclers with those funny hats and padded drawers. Darn, not again!

There is only one of two things to do in this situation. First, either take it easy and share the road until the way is clear or ... floor the pedal and send them flying into the ditch, buried under their mangled titanium Italian racing parts and REI water bottles.

I happen to know one or two people who do road cycling. They are pretty decent folks who are really committed to this sport, which is an excellent way to stay in shape and a lot of fun to boot.

Because I know them, I tend to pick the former option whenever this scenario occurs. But I have a near kin who spends most of his driving trying to get somewhere before closing time, get back to the job before the crew runs out of things to do, or get the right parts to the garage so the broke piece of really expensive equipment will be fixed by the next morning. And when he comes around dead man's curve with his off-side wheels smoking while he's running 15 minutes late, and there's yet another gaggle of dedicated road bikers huffing up the hill to the high bridge, the second option gets a lot of consideration.

I suggest that maybe the weekends would be a better time to use our steeper two-lane county roads. Stay to the bike lanes during the week. I'm not demanding any new laws or construction, just a common-sense suggestion here. No blood on the pavement needed.

***

Now, about that downtown fountain.

I feel for the lady who made the thing. I've been there. You spend hours and money, and whether the thing turned out looking the way you wanted or not, you still have to sell it. People who spend their lives in an office just don't seem to understand that the prototype is it. You either sell it or go bust.

The price tag looks huge to the customer, but the margin left after materials, labor, insurance and permits take their bites out leaves mighty slim pickings more often than not, and there you are with a fountain spewing water and letters that keep popping up in the paper full of complaints before the final check has cleared the bank.

If I were the lady who made it, I reckon I'd say, “You go try to make a giant fountain that looks like a mountain and see if you can keep it from looking like a tooth. it ain't as easy as you think it is.”

Look at it this way: No matter whether you love it or hate it, it has to be said that no other town in the world has anything that looks quite like it.

<p>Mary Jane Strickland is a lady with cerebral palsy. She hasn't been out of a wheelchair since she was a little girl. She has lived the past 20-some years at the Brian Center nursing home in Laurel Park. She can't hold a pencil, wash a glass, make a bed or fry an egg, but she can type.</p><p>When she was a teenager, her adoptive dad took the harness out of a construction hard hat, welded a metal rod to the front band and attached a pencil eraser to the end. He then bought her an electric typewriter. That was the start of her writing career, which consisted of daily letters to all her extended family members and friends, culminating with her book of reminisces of what it was like growing up on a Carolina tobacco farm in the '40s and early '50s.</p><p>My favorite story is the wagon and the goat that pulled her around in it, and the young uncle who decided the goat should give him a ride, also. The goat didn't like the uncle much to start with, so after some fits and starts, the goat launched itself and the wagon with the uncle crammed inside it at a just-below-speed-of-sound velocity underneath the porch of the house. Houses in that area back then were usually set above the ground on brick pillars, maybe a couple inches above goat horn height but about 6 inches too low for young uncles. Said young uncle woke up in time for breakfast the next morning.</p><p>The book is for sale at the Blue Ridge Humane Society's thrift shop, and all proceeds go to the care of the critters. Even if you don't like dogs and cats, you'll like the book, so go and buy a copy. I recommend it.</p><p>***</p><p>Now, about the hordes of bicyclists on the roads this year. An all-too-frequent experience in our end of the county is whizzing around a corner while in a hurry to catch up on the day, and there, puffing up the next hill at a blazing 1½ miles an hour is a crowd of bicyclers with those funny hats and padded drawers. Darn, not again!</p><p>There is only one of two things to do in this situation. First, either take it easy and share the road until the way is clear or ... floor the pedal and send them flying into the ditch, buried under their mangled titanium Italian racing parts and REI water bottles.</p><p>I happen to know one or two people who do road cycling. They are pretty decent folks who are really committed to this sport, which is an excellent way to stay in shape and a lot of fun to boot.</p><p>Because I know them, I tend to pick the former option whenever this scenario occurs. But I have a near kin who spends most of his driving trying to get somewhere before closing time, get back to the job before the crew runs out of things to do, or get the right parts to the garage so the broke piece of really expensive equipment will be fixed by the next morning. And when he comes around dead man's curve with his off-side wheels smoking while he's running 15 minutes late, and there's yet another gaggle of dedicated road bikers huffing up the hill to the high bridge, the second option gets a lot of consideration.</p><p>I suggest that maybe the weekends would be a better time to use our steeper two-lane county roads. Stay to the bike lanes during the week. I'm not demanding any new laws or construction, just a common-sense suggestion here. No blood on the pavement needed.</p><p>***</p><p>Now, about that downtown fountain.</p><p>I feel for the lady who made the thing. I've been there. You spend hours and money, and whether the thing turned out looking the way you wanted or not, you still have to sell it. People who spend their lives in an office just don't seem to understand that the prototype is it. You either sell it or go bust.</p><p>The price tag looks huge to the customer, but the margin left after materials, labor, insurance and permits take their bites out leaves mighty slim pickings more often than not, and there you are with a fountain spewing water and letters that keep popping up in the paper full of complaints before the final check has cleared the bank.</p><p>If I were the lady who made it, I reckon I'd say, “You go try to make a giant fountain that looks like a mountain and see if you can keep it from looking like a tooth. it ain't as easy as you think it is.”</p><p>Look at it this way: No matter whether you love it or hate it, it has to be said that no other town in the world has anything that looks quite like it.</p>